We Pick Each Other Up
by Oswin Jae
Summary: Short oneshots of the musketeers, and others, being injured and helping each other feel better. H/C lots of H and extra C. No slash. I take requests.
1. D'Artagnan: Broken Leg

**Yes, I have started a new fic. This is my first venture in the Musketeers fandom. Hopefully I can keep it going for a while with regular-ish updates.**

**I do not, nor will I ever own the musketeers.**

* * *

d'Artagnan was getting sick of being unable to train, or ride, or simply _get out of bed_.

"It's your own fault," said Athos. He had his arms crossed and was leaning against the wall in d'Artagnan's room at the garrison. "You shouldn't have tried to climb to the top of that tree."

"Aramis bet me I couldn't do it," said d'Artagnan childishly.

"In the middle of a _thunder storm_."

d'Artagnan looked at the cast on his broken leg. "It seemed like a good idea."

"Sure it did."

The door opened and entered Porthos carrying a jar of something light brown.

"d'Artagnan, I've got new and amazing for you," the large musketeer handed the injured man the jar.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Taste it."

"What? No! It looks disgusting!"

"Just taste it!"

"It does look pretty disgusting," said Athos.

Porthos glared it him. "Look, d'Artagnan, I'm not gonna leave you alone until you taste it."

"Fine! What is it?" d'Artagnan gave in.

Porthos smiled. "Peanut butter."

"Peanut butter?" said Athos. "What kind of nonsense is that?"

"It's butter made out of peanuts you moron. Eat it d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan reluctantly stuck his finger in the jar, scooped out some of the brown goop, and ate it. His eyes grew wide at the glorious taste.

And he was forever in debt to Porthos.

* * *

**Feel free to send me injuries for the musketeers, or ways to make them feel better. :)**


	2. Porthos: Broken Fingers

**Hello again! I'm glad you came! I wasn't planning on updating until tomorrow, but I finished and couldn't wait. ;) Lucky for you. Many many thanks to Mascota for the wonderful ideas and suggestions. I may not use them all in a row, but they shall be done. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers, it would be too much responsibility anyway.**

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"I just don't understand why someone would want to kidnap me," complained Porthos, sitting at a table in his room staring at his bandaged hands.

"I really don't know why either," said Aramis jokingly. He shrugged against the wall.

Porthos glared at him, "Hey, I could be important. Someone somewhere would pay a ransom for me."

Aramis nodded. "We'd pay to get you back, friend. But fighting is more fun."

"They probably wanted you because of your ties to the Court of Miracles," said Athos pacing, all seriousness. "You're lucky we found you when we did, or they might've broken more than your pointer fingers."

D'Artagnan leaned foreward, resting his forearms on the table between him and Porthos. "Why did they just break your pointer fingers?"

Porthos glared at the wall. "So I wouldn't be able to shoot."

"Cruel," muttered Athos.

"Tasteless," said Aramis.

"At least the physician said you would make a complete recovery," Athos came close to smiling.

"I just don't see how anyone could hurt Porthos," stated D'Artagnan. "Look at him, he's just a big stuffed bear."

Porthos growled at him.

"Forget that," D'Artagnan backpedaled. "He's just a bear."

Aramis walked over to Porthos and clapped him on the shoulder. "Know, friend, we would do anything to get you back."

D'Artagnan nodded fierceness coloring his eyes, "We would fight anyone or pay any ransom."

"Anything," said Athos setting a hand on his other shoulder, "to get our brother back."

"Aw, guys," Porthos bowed his head, "you make me feel special."

"You are special, bear," Aramis said smiling, "and until you can shoot again, we will all cover you."

"Thanks," said Porthos grinning. He didn't even feel the pain in his hands anymore.

* * *

**Was that fluffy enough for ya?**


	3. Athos: Bullet

**This chapter is longer than the first two, and makes me very proud. :3 It fulfills some of Mascota's prompts; I hope you all enjoy! I hope you all appreciate what I went through to get you this so soon! Commence the reading!**

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They musketeers, Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan, were surrounded. _Nothing_ happened on patrols. It never happened to the other musketeers; why did _they_ always get attacked by bandits?

Jumping from their horses, the musketeers fired into the bandits before drawing their swords for closer combat.

Athos' world dimmed to cutting, slashing, ducking, and stabbing; as he dispatched one bandit, another was sure to take his place. His sword was slick with blood. A larger than average bandit with his face covered with a swath of fabric stepped up. He was more skilled and controlled than the average mercenary, and Athos found it difficult for himself to keep up.

Finally the giant lashed out with his foot to kick Athos in the knee, simultaneously slashing a shallow cut just beneath Athos' collarbone.

Athos groaned as he collapsed. The mercenary above him chuckled. So focused was he on his impending victory, he didn't notice the dagger hidden in the fallen musketeer's boot until it was imbedded in his ribcage.

Athos stood shakily, picked up his sword and dagger, and stepped over the bandit's still body. He shook off the warm blood covering his gloved hand and arm up to the elbow.

With no bandits immediately around him, Athos took in the rest of the fighting in the woods. Aramis and Porthos were doing well and most of the mercenaries were either littering the forest floor or fleeing.

Athos spotted D'Artagnan. He was disarmed and completely weaponless, backed against a tree and panting. The obvious leader of the group was standing in front of him with D'Artagnan's own sword leveled against him. The point was scarcely a few inches from the youngest musketeer's heart.

The bandit reached into a holster strapped to his leg and pulled forth a loaded blunderbuss. He lowered the sword and pointed the musket at D'Artagnan's heart instead.

The young musketeer raised his chin and stared into the bandit's eyes with unadulterated pride and defiance.

Athos began running. He feet grew heavier. The air thickened around him and in his lungs. D'Artagnan's face merged with his younger brother's until he could no longer tell who he was running to.

"NO!" he shouted as he pushed the boy aside and the bandit fired.

Pain shot through his chest and blood pounded in his temples. He felt hard ground beneath his back but couldn't remember falling. He felt wet drops land on his face and heard the all-too familiar sound of a sword being pulled from a body.

D'Artagnan's face appeared in his swirling vision, framed by the sky and tree canopy above.

"Athos? Athos, can you hear me?" asked D'Artagnan, worry evident in his eyes and voice. It seemed too much effort to answer him so he didn't. The pain had condensed to an area on the left side of his chest. Aramis and Porthos joined his vision as well, asking mundane questions of pain as all went dark.

* * *

Athos could feel pain radiating from his shoulder like claws. He groaned and shifted but couldn't be bothered to open his eyes just yet.

"Oh no," a voice grumbled above him. "I think he's waking up."

"He can't wake up yet. Aramis hasn't removed the bullet from his shoulder yet."

"I'm ready."

"We don't have any pain medicine."

"Just knock him out, Porthos! He's done it to you enough times."

"I knew it!"

Pain then nothing.

* * *

Two days later Athos awoke a second time. This time he was in his own bed, in his own room at the garrison.

A dip in his mattress alerted him to the presence of someone else. He moved his head groggily to better view the person sitting at his side. D'Artagnan. Athos sighed and the smallest of small smiles crossed his lips.

D'Artagnan smiled at him. "I'm glad you survived," he said.

"I'm glad you survived too," replied Athos. "Despite your desperate attempts to the contrary."

D'Artagnan chuckled. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Bits and pieces. Vaguely."

"I've never seen you run so fast."

"I've never seen someone so prepared to die. It's a little worrisome."

"Don't worry, Athos, I don't plan on dying for a very long time."

"Good."

D'Artagnan looked down briefly before meeting the older man's eyes again. "You saved my life. I can never begin to repay you."

Athos shook his head. "You don't need to repay anything. You have helped me redeem myself. I owe you."

D'Artagnan looked slightly confused, but completely trusting. "I'll leave you for the night then. It's late and you need to heal so I can kick your butt in training."

"If you were half as good as you think you are that bandit wouldn't have kicked yours," Athos slurred, his eyes drooping with sleep.

"Night Athos."

"Nigh' D'Artagna'."

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**As always, reviews make me have a very big happy and update quicker!**


	4. Aramis: Cold

**And here is our fourth musketeer to whump. Thanks to everyone for reviewing and following and favoriting! You all make me so happy!**

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Aramis had just wanted some peace and quiet. Just some time by himself resting in the shade by the lake on the outskirts of Paris. Listening to the birds and wondering how long it'd take Treville to notice he'd skipped out on training. But when he'd rode up on his horse and seen a damsel flailing in the water, how could he resist?

Aramis jumped from his horse and took off running, leaves crunching under foot. He shed his cloak as he ran, and any unnecessary layers of leather, before flinging his shirt off and kicking his boots away. In only his trousers, Aramis ran into the chilled water.

The damsel's splashing became weaker, less violent. The musketeer's heart clenched as she went under. He kicked harder, widened his strokes. Aramis' breath came in sharp breaks, the cold water was turning his extremities numb. His wet hair got in his eyes, partially blinding him. The woman resurfaced, her weak splashing renewed.

Aramis grew nearer and heard her faint cries for help. She was about to go under again as he finally reached her.

"Shhh shh, calm down, calm, I'm here," he panted desperately. He reached for her waist to help support her.

She briefly fought him before realizing he was trying to save her. She relaxed in his grip and let him begin swimming them both to safety. Aramis felt her sides expand and contract with her ragged breaths. She weakly paddled along with him.

The way back to shore seemed twice as long and twice as cold. Autumn was nearing winter and it was not the time to be swimming. Aramis' arms were numb to the elbows and his legs to the knees; his chest felt like it had been mauled by a porcupine.

Finally, he felt rocks and mud beneath his tingling feet. He scrabbled for purchase and dragged the damsel and himself to shore.

They both collapsed side by side, panting and shivering. Aramis knew they couldn't remain here, frostbite or pneumonia would find them. He looked to his side to see who he'd rescued. The girl was very young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She had caramel colored hair and rose cheeks. The soaked folds of her blue dress surrounded her. She looked up at her savior with large green eyes.

Aramis stood with difficulty and began putting on his boots and leathers. He saved his shirt and cloak to wrap the shivering girl as he helped her stand. He led her over to his mount, all the while rubbing her arms to restore circulation. He lifted her up before mounting behind her.

He turned the horse around and galloped back to Paris.

* * *

Aramis sneezed. Again. Between coughing and sneezed and hacking he could hardly keep a conversation going with Porthos, who was sitting in a chair beside his bed.

"Just eat the soup, Aramis."

"I don't want to eat the soup. It's nasty."

"Oi! I made it!"

Aramis sneezed. "So I noticed."

It had been two days since he'd saved the girl at the lake. They'd only barely made it to a physician before Aramis had blacked out, hence the large bruise and the side of his head. He'd woken up later that night in his own room back at the garrison, swaddled in blankets with a cold. No one new what had happened to the girl.

Porthos sighed. "You're just upset about that girl. Look, from what you've told us, she'll be fine. You got the kid to the physician. I'm sure he took care of her and she's already good as new."

Aramis stared into his bowl of soup and said nothing.

There was a light knock at the door.

Porthos stood as Aramis huddled further under his blankets, preparing for the draft opening the door would bring.

"Hello. Is, um... Aramis... here?" a small voice asked. Aramis' ears perked up.

"Yes, he is, miss." Porthos stepped aside and the girl Aramis had saved entered, and to Aramis' relief, she didn't look a bit sick.

She was wearing a bright yellow dress this time and was carrying something steaming and a small bundle. Aramis saw Porthos exit from the corner of his eye.

"Hello again," Aramis said trying to disguise his runny nose. "It pleases me to know you're alright."

The girl nodded with a small smile. "I'm sorry you're sick. I brought you some soup."

Aramis took it and inhaled as deeply as he could with his partially functioning nose. This he would enjoy eating. "Think nothing of it. I've had much worse. What's your name?"

"Belle," she said. "Thank you for saving me."

"You're very welcome," Aramis smiled at her. He suffered through a small coughing fit. "If you don't mind my asking, what were you doing in that cold lake?"

"I heard there was treasure in the lake. I'd never swam before and I didn't think it would be that difficult," she giggled.

Aramis chuckled too. "Reality check for a dreamer, eh?"

She smiled, "I suppose. I've always wanted to be an adventurer."

"Well if you have that much determination and heart, you can do whatever you like. Just stay away from water."

Belle blushed. "I have your shirt and cloak too," she handed him the bundle.

Aramis shook his head. "Keep the cloak. You'll need a cloak for all your adventures, Belle," he winked at her.

"Thank you," she said.

"Thank you."

* * *

**And the next to be whumped and comforted: Captain Treville.**


	5. Treville: Shot

**Hello, hello! I think I've done pretty well since I never intended this fic to be updated daily. But since so many of you have liked this I have. Thanks for all the reviews!**

**I do not own The Musketeers.**

* * *

Athos sat his sword and dagger on the dresser in his room. He'd just finished his own training, though some still toiled on outside. He removed his gloves and belt and stretched before laying down on his bed. He didn't see the harm in relaxing for a while before eating dinner with Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan.

He felt he was just about to fall asleep when a shot and a cry of pain rang from outside. Athos was immediately suspicious since there was no shooting practice today. He was even more suspicious when laughter wafted up through his window.

Athos sighed, knowing he would regret going out there. He stood up anyway and walked out to see what happened.

* * *

Athos leaned against the wall in Treville's office as Aramis patched the musketeers' captain up.

Porthos couldn't contain it anymore, and began chuckling quietly in the corner.

"What, exactly, is so funny?" Treville asked while glaring at Porthos, clearly imagining brutal murder.

Porthos wasn't abashed. "You shot yourself in the foot." He kept laughing.

D'Artagnan began laughing as well. They'd all refrained from saying it aloud. Until now.

"It's what you get for trying to show off," said Aramis from his kneeled position in front of the captain.

Treville growled but said nothing.

"You're already the captain," said D'Artagnan, "what else were you trying to gain by swinging that musket around like that?"

"You should know better than to attempt such feats in your olden age," teased Athos.

Treville chuckled. "You all just wait until I can run again. I'll kick your butts."

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**Next chapter the cycle starts over again with D'Artagnan.**


	6. D'Artagnan: Beating

**Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for not updating yesterday! I got dragged through a ton of stores (limping since I hurt my leg) and when we finally made it back home I was too exhausted to write anything you'd enjoy reading. But here it finally is!**

**This is for the anonymous reviewer (I don't know who you are but you do) who wanted some brotherly love for a hurt D'Artagnan. I hope you all enjoy!**

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D'Artagnan was on his way to meet up with Aramis, Porthos, and Athos to decide what to do for lunch. The red guards had come up from behind him, undetectable, silent, and stealthy. Unsuspecting D'Artagnan didn't know he was under attack until they'd removed his weapons and dragged him into a side alley.

The youngest musketeer fought back with his fists, but he was outnumbered by six of the red guards. Fists rained and boots pounded and stomped and D'Artagnan was lost in the haze of it.

"_HEY!_" familiar shouts rang out above. The ones beating him stopped and D'Artagnan became aware he was laying curled on his side on the muddy cobblestone ground.

D'Artagnan fought to open his already swelling eyes. Between the legs of the red guards he saw three silhouettes backlit in the mouth of the alley.

"Get away from our little brother," growled Porthos as he and Aramis and Athos stepped forward.

One of the red guards held his hands up. "We don't want any trouble with you," he said.

"On the contrary," said Athos, glaring under the brim of his hat. "Looks like that's exactly what you want."

"And that, gentlemen," said Aramis, "is exactly what you've got."

"So you wanna fight too, eh?" The red guards settled into fighting stances and raised their fists.

"Oh no," said Athos, "We're not going to fight you. Not right here, not right now."

"I have each of your faces memorized," said Aramis pointing at each of them.

Porthos growled, "Right now, we're going to take D'Artagnan back to the musketeers' garrison. And we're going to patch him up."

"And after that," said Athos, perfectly calm, "We're going to hunt each and every one of you down, and beat you into the ground."

"But for right now," Aramis smiled charmingly deadly, "you're going to let us through without a fight."

"Because if one of you moves the wrong way," said Porthos, "I'll smash your head in."

The musketeers strode forward and the red guards all backed away with their hands raised. Athos bent down and Aramis helped him place an unconscious D'Artagnan as comfortably as possible on his shoulders.

Walking back out of the alley, Porthos turned and thrust his fist into the face of the nearest red guard, who fell backwards, the back of his head smacking into a brick wall.

"He moved the wrong way?" asked Athos.

"Aye," growled Porthos, "he was breathin'."

Aramis turned back and smiled charmingly. "See you all soon."

* * *

D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered erratically. He groaned in pain from his head, face, chest, arms, legs, _everywhere_.

"Hey there, little brother," Porthos swirled and faded in D'Artagnan's vision before finally steadying. "Aw man, you really don't look good."

"Thanks," mumbled D'Artagnan through a crooked smile. "I've seen you better. How'd you get that?"

Porthos shrugged, seemingly proud of his own single black eye. "Maybe one day I'll tell ya."

D'Artagnan then became aware Athos and Aramis were also in his room. "Hey."

"How do you feel?" asked Athos.

"Like I lost a lot of fights."

Aramis shrugged. "That could be accurate. How much do you remember?"

"I remember your rather _late_ arrival," D'Artagnan mock glared. "And then blacking out."

Aramis clicked his tongue. "You know what that means, Athos?"

"What does that mean, Aramis?"

"It means he missed all our threats to the red guards."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile at his brothers.

"The threats were my favorite part," said Porthos.

There was a knock at the door which Athos went and opened. Captain Treville entered and nodded at the invalided D'Artagnan.

"You're feeling better, I hope?" the captain asked.

"Healing," said D'Artagnan. "So that means hurting."

Treville smiled. "Yes, the healing is in the aching." He addressed the three other musketeers. "I assume you three have heard the news on the streets?"

They didn't look at all surprised or intrigued. "What news?" asked Athos.

"The news about the six red guards found yesterday," supplied Treville.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brows; something was definitely off.

"Hmmm, six red guards," said Aramis thoughtfully. "Pray tell."

Treville gave him a knowing look. "Six red guards were found over the course of yesterday, all in empty alleys. They were nearly beaten to death and unrecognizable. In fact the ones who found them thought they were dead."

"How unfortunate," said Porthos.

"For the red guards," added Aramis.

"Indeed," Treville said slowly, eyeing each musketeer carefully in the room. "Quite a shiner you've got there, Porthos."

"Happens," Porthos answered.

Athos opened the door. "It's been informative, truly captain, but our little pup needs his sleep," he said, controversially dismissing the captain.

Treville stopped in the doorway and eyed Athos. "It would be a shame for whoever attacked the red guards if they suddenly remember the culprits."

"Yes it would," said Athos. "Although, I have a gut feeling they covered their tracks well."

"I'm sure they did," said Treville. "Get well soon, D'Artagnan," the captain tossed over his shoulder as he left.


	7. Porthos: Punched

**You cannot comprehend the level of sorry I am for not updating. I've been going Christmas shopping pretty much everyday and my dad's on vacation so he's been wanting to go places and now I'm sick. If illness is what it takes for me to finally get this chapter done that **_**would not cooperate**_**, then it worked!**

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D'Artagnan laughed at the endearing sight of Porthos surrounded by a gaggle of giggling children in the street.

"This happens all the time," said Aramis. "Children love Porthos. They think he's cuddly."

The squealing children ran around his legs and climbed up tables to jump on his shoulders. Porthos laughed along with them.

"He doesn't seem un-cuddly," said D'Artagnan.

A small girl, perhaps four or five years of age, in a pink dress with two blond braids ran up to the large musketeer and began tugging on his trousers.

"Monsieur Porthos!," she cried out happily, "Can I punch you in the stomach?"

"Of course you can, lass," Porthos picked the little girl up and placed her on top a table. He then placed his hands on his hips and stood straight in front of her. "Give it your all, now. Show me how strong you are," Porthos said while chuckling.

"This happens all the time too," said Aramis. "Children ask if they can punch him in the gut, he lets them, and then he acts like he's hurt. He has fun, the kids love it, and I think it does wonders for their self esteem."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Do you think he'd let me punch him if I asked nicely?"

"You'd have to actually be five," said Athos, "not just have the mentality of a five-year-old."

D'Artagnan pouted.

The little girl pulled her small fist back, a look of pure concentration covering her face. She swung forward and caught Pothos on his left side. Porthos' eyes grew wide and he grunted. He stumbled a couple steps backwards before falling like a tree and landing like a rock, groaning. He curled up on his right side.

"Wow," said D'Artagnan. "Porthos is a _good_ actor. I wouldn't have suspected that."

"He usually doesn't put quite so much effort into acting hurt," said Aramis. "Must've wanted to give that girl somthing to brag about."

The children all scattered, laughing. They found their interests captured by other things and soon it was just the four musketeers in the street. Porthos was still lying on his side.

"I not so sure Porthos is acting," said Athos skeptically.

Concerned, his three friends walked over to him.

"They're gone now," Aramis gently kicked his leg, "you don't have to act wounded anymore."

"Hey Aramis?" Porthos ground out with obvious effort.

"Yeah?"

"You know that broken rib I got a month ago and said healed?"

"Yes."

"Apparently it didn't."

* * *

Porthos had one arm slung over Athos' shoulders and the other on Aramis' as they helped him back to the garrison. D'Artagnan had gone on ahead to get some ice ready.

They entered the garrison and were met by D'Artagnan and Treville. They followed as Athos and Aramis got Porthos to his room and on his bed.

D'Artagnan gave Porthos the ice to hold against his rib. "Captain," Porthos said, "I'm surprised you haven't asked what happened to me yet."

"D'Artagnan told me," the captain replied.

"And so what if twenty others overheard," said D'Artagnan grinning.

"I'm gonna thump you," growled Porthos.

Treville gave a rare grin. "Do point this little girl out to me so I know to avoid her."

Porthos glared at the captain who only had a slight limp now. "I haven't forgotten you shot yourself in the foot."

Treville held his arms out wide. "Anytime you wanna fight, Porthos! I'll hand your backside to you."

Athos placed his hand on the captain's shoulder. "I think we should all leave Porthos to rest and come to terms with his defeat by the hand of a small child."

"I'll take on anyone of ya right now," said Porthos.

"Get some sleep, I will check on you later." said Aramis, and they all left.

* * *

**So yeah. The foot thing's a bit of a sore spot for Treville. I wouldn't bring it up.**

**So I realized I forgot to comfort Treville after whumping him. Oh well, he kinda deserved it.**


	8. Athos: Poisoned

**Hello! Yes, it's me again. Until the holidays are over I'm aiming for updating every other day cause updating every day just isn't possible for me. I'm almost entirely over my cold though. Yay! And The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies is AMAZING! So worth going out in the cold while being sick. lol**

**Jayel7: I assume by long fic you meant multi chapter? I'll consider it. I'm not very confident in my ability to consistently update currently. If I do I may expand the plot from this chapter. Thanks for reviewing and inspiring me!**

* * *

Athos didn't remember being knocked out, but the pain pulsating in his head let him know it had happened.

A rough cloth was wrapped around his eyes, blocking out any and all light. His hands and feet were bound also, not that he could have escaped anyway. Athos felt all his energy had been forcibly leeched from him.

Hands lifted his head up and a cup was pressed to his lips. The liquid tasted vile but Athos literally couldn't refuse. His head was dropped back to the ground and he lost consciousness again.

* * *

Athos pried open his bleary eyes to let the dim sunlight in. His ears were assaulted by the early morning sounds of life in Paris. People chatting and carts being pushed and pulled to and from wherever.

Athos struggled to sit up and leaned his stiff and aching back against the wall of the building behind him. He'd woken up in streets and alleys drunk before, but he knew this time he hadn't been drinking. However, he did feel strange. Like some part of his brain was blocked off or clouded.

He staggered to his feet and was somewhat surprised when he actually stayed upright. He took a moment to orient himself before swaying off in the direction of the garrison.

* * *

Upon entering the garrison, Athos was struck with an enormous sense of deja vu. There was something here he was specifically _not remembering_.

A large man with dark skin and black curly hair hidden under a bandana came up to him. Anger sparked in Athos' chest and throat at the mere sight of him.

"Hey Athos," the large man said. "Where ya been? We haven't seen ya since you disappeared on us last night."

Athos snarled. Primal fury reared up within him, turning his bones to fire. Athos lashed out to strike Porthos in the jaw with his fist. Porthos backpedaled, shocked. He had no time to comprehend what was happening before Athos struck him again. And again. And. Again.

Athos was on top of Porthos on the ground. Relentless in punishing the man for nothing while he burned in his own internal fire.

There were shouts and hands grabbed him, pulling, prying, jerking. Athos kicked and scratched at the familiarly unfamiliar faces. Eyes of friends and teeth of dogs and _they needed to die because it was his job and he was burning and why weren't they burning and he should made them burn and groan because they deserved it and so did he_.

Stars and black spots mixed in his vision as Athos lost feelings in his arms and legs. He flopped on the ground, burning cold. He tasted the dirt covering his tongue and lips more clearly than anything had ever been tasted. All he wanted to do was curl up in a corner and cry and have someone hold him.

* * *

"Athos? Athos, can you wake up for me?"

Athos groaned. His throat was too dry for any other sound. He received a cup of water for his lack of effort.

"Athos?"

"Aramis?" he choked out. He opened his eyes. Aramis' face appeared before him. He sucked in a shocked breath, irritating his throat again. Pain in his knuckles pulsed and throbbed in time with his heartbeat. "I'm so sorry, friend."

Aramis smiled, which contrasted with his swollen black eye, split lip, bruised cheekbone and jaw. "No worries, we know you weren't yourself."

"Where's D'Artagnan? And Porthos? Oh, Porthos-" Athos remembered the unbridled unquenchable fury. The feeling of his fist connecting with Porthos' face. "I didn't- What did I do?"

"Nothing a brilliant medic, like me, couldn't fix up easily," Aramis smirked. "Although, you did kick D'Artagnan in a certain spot that may have had him crying, poor boy."

Athos couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped his dry lips, though he felt horrible, physically and emotionally. He'd attacked his _friends_. It had been like he didn't even know who they were.

"And for Porthos," continued Aramis, "he's just fine. He's asleep in his room, it is midnight, after all. It's just some severe bruising, you didn't even break his nose. He'll be just fine."

"Aramis?" asked Athos, though he dreaded the answer, "Why aren't you angry at me? I have no idea what came over me, I was not myself. But you seem to know it was beyond my control. How?"

"Well we were quite confused for a bit," Aramis smiled. "But right after you so elegantly passed out, Adnet, Blaise, and Edgard returned from their mission."

"I didn't know they were on a mission," interrupted Athos.

"Well good cause it was a secret mission, all very hush-hush," Aramis winked. "There was a particular anti-monarchy group that had been a bit too quiet for too long for the king and the cardinal's liking. So Treville sent them to investigate, which was a very good thing."

"I'm not seeing what this has to do with you not being mad at me for attacking you, although I am very grateful," said Athos.

"I'm getting there, quit interrupting," Aramis reprimanded. "And they discovered a series of cases where ordinary and unconnected people attacked their friends and family in fits of extreme rage, much like yourself. I'll cut to the chase because your eyes are drooping and I don't want you to fall asleep before I'm done," Aramis spoke quickly. "The group has been spending a considerable amount of time developing a poison that causes people to attack those they are loyal too. They'd planned on giving the poison to guards and musketeers close to the king so they would temporarily go mad and kill him. They'd been kidnapping random people from the streets and forcing the poison on them to study the effects. So basically, Athos," concluded Aramis, "you have some terrible luck."

"Fascinating, Aramis," said Athos, who was struggling to keep his eyes open. "Now can you explain it again tomorrow when I can understand it?"

Aramis chuckled. "Goodnight Athos. Know you are forgiven. Of everything."

* * *

**Thank you all for the amazing reviews! They make me feel so happy and inspired. **

**If you would like a musketeer or someone (no one is off limits) whumped or comforted in a specific way (no slash and must stay rated T or under) drop it in a review! I'll get to it! ;)**


	9. Aramis: Shot

**Okay, I am sorry. So very sorry. I got a new laptop for Christmas, and it had issues. It wouldn't access the internet and everything was blocked and it just didn't like me. I just got it back and it's fixed so I can update again! Yay!**

**Debbie: Thank you! I'll do it. D'Art is at the beginning of the next cycle.**

**Guest: Aww I'm so glad they made your day! Queen Anne is up next.**

**If I do have different characters get the same injury (like here, I've also shot Treville) I promise they will be in very, very different ways so nothing feels repeated.**

* * *

Aramis balanced the pumpkin perfectly on top his head and winked at Porthos. He trusted his friend completely.

Porthos on the other hand, didn't trust himself so much. He couldn't back out, though. It was one thing to shoot a pumpkin off his friend's head when they were out having fun and showing off, but another entirely to be captured by six sadistic red guards and have a pistol pressed to the back of your head under threat of being shot if you didn't shoot at your friend.

Porthos struggled to steady his hand, his musket seemed to be weaving all over the place. They'd given him an ancient one; Porthos wasn't even sure it would fire. But he guessed it made the red guards feel better.

Another red guard leveled a pistol to his head. "Shoot. Now."

Porthos growled. Aramis smiled and winked at him. This was no big deal to him. "Come on, Porthos," Aramis shouted at him. "The sooner you shoot this pumpkin the sooner we can take care of these guys and get some lunch."

Porthos couldn't help but chuckle as he attempted to aim again. He had made this shot before. Multiple times; it was always fine. He would be fine. Aramis would be fine. The red guards would not be so fine. "You're all going to pay for this," he growled and fired. The pumpkin exploded, shattered pieces of outsides and insides flying in all directions, the ground painted in orange clusters. And red spots..

Aramis hit the ground.

Silence. Stillness. Echoes.

Porthos' eyes trained on the still figure. His edges of his vision darkened, blackened. He surged forward all too fast and too slow. The voices of the shouting red guards faded into unimportant nothingness.

"I've seen him make the shot before!"

"He killed him!"

"This was just supposed to be a joke!"

"We have to go!"

_He killed him he killed him he killed him killed him killed him._

_Dead dead dead dead dead._

"Aramis!" he yelled, finally reaching his friend and cradling his pale head in his lap and blood blood blood.

Athos and D'Artagnan arrived not a moment later, swords out and ready to be covered in blood. However, after spotting Aramis and Porthos they let the guards go.

Porthos was only aware of running and shouting and running and carrying and his hands were red, as red as Aramis' head. If Aramis died he died. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. Porthos suddenly thought passing out seemed an okay thing to do so he did.

* * *

Darkness. It was pierced by a single candle on the window sill. Porthos rubbed at his eyes and blinked until his eyes adjusted. The room was not as dark as he previously believed; it was only just after sunset.

The room was Aramis'. The man in question was laying on the bed, pale and still with his head wrapped neatly in stark white bandages. Guilt unfurled into Porthos' stomach and chest and clench his heart. He'd shot his best friend in the head. While said best friend had trusted him enough to not do it. His hands curled into fists and Porthos seriously considered punching himself until he passed out again.

"Physician just left," Athos' voice startled him. The man was leaning in the doorway.

"Where's D'Artagnan?" Porthos asked because he could think of nothing else to say.

"He fell asleep in the floor next to Aramis' bed. I carried him back to his room."

"What'd the physician have to say?"

"It's nothing serious," Athos shook his head. "It looked a lot worse than it was because head wounds bleed so much. The ball just grazed the top of his head. He'll have to get used to his new hairline for a bit and wear his hat when he flirts with the ladies but it'll all grow back."

Porthos nodded. "I did this. It could have been so much worse," he said pointing the bed and the prone figure on it. "I shot Aramis," his voice cracked and he couldn't make it through the name before tears began pooling in his eyes.

"It. Was. Not. Your. Fault," stated Athos.

"How would you know?" shouted Porthos. "You weren't there!"

"I was there!" Athos shouted back. "D'Artagnan and I stumbled upon you right as you shot! Trust me, you could control _nothing_."

"I could have not shot him!"

"That musket was ancient! It's testament to your skill that you didn't kill him!"

"Athos-"

"Do you want me to smack you?" yelled Athos. "Because I am stressed enough to do it!"

"Orthos?" The weak voice wasn't quite awake, but aware enough to want the shouting to stop.

Porthos was at the bedside in a second. "Aramis?" Aramis face was white white white and his dark curls were hidden beneath the bandages. His body was hidden under a mound of blankets. He was already out again.

Porthos lifted his legs up onto the bed and reclined against the headboard. He would be here when Aramis awoke. And get anything anything anything he needed.

Athos tossed an extra blanket over the both of them. "I'll be back at dawn and if you still feel guilty I will slap you." Athos left.

Porthos snuggled down beside his friend. Aramis was going to be fine. Porthos would always carry some guilt inside him. But his brother was alive and would do whatever he had to protect him.

* * *

**I've been experimenting with my writing style. I hope it's good!**


	10. Queen Anne: Fall

**Definite spoilers for the end of season one. Just saying, I live in the United States so the Musketeers doesn't start again until the 17th. I want season two so bad! So no spoilers please!**

**Guest: And here is the adorable Queen Anne for you. :)**

* * *

Queen Anne was content. Happy even. The baby was being extra kicky inside her stomach today. She smiled, lightly rubbing a hand over her swollen belly. She'd escaped from her maids for a brief stroll through the palace in peace.

The halls were warmed by summer, the decorative walls and marble floors tinted gold by the thick light shining through the windows. It illuminated tapestries, statues, all the things Anne didn't care about right now. Her mind was solely occupied by her child inside her and serene thoughts of a certain Musketeer she didn't see nearly as often as she'd like.

The world sounded so quiet in the empty halls, but the beauty was so loud.

Not paying attention, the queen took a wrong turn. The polished floor disappeared from beneath her feet. Gravity wrapped her its arms and pulled.

Pain in her ankle. Agony in her hip. Lacerations on her arms and legs. Anne tumbled down the steps. A cry warbled past her lips.

She finally thudded to the ground. Aching and pulsing with pain. She lay there still and unmoving. Pain was unimportant. Any injuries she sustained were meaningless. But her _child_. She'd already lost one baby, she could not lose another. The baby had stopped kicking.

Anne lay there praying. She prayed and she prayed and prayed.

"My queen!" A single set of pounding footsteps rattled the floor and her bones. Anne realized she was crying.

The man knelt beside her. Her vision wasn't clear. Musketeer uniform, brown hair, brown eyes. But not Aramis. Where was Aramis? She wanted Aramis.

"What happened, my queen?" Anne vaguely recognized him. He was the newest one. She could not remember his name. "Where are you injured?"

"My child," was all she could say. "My child has to be okay."

The new Musketeer picked her up. Though she knew he was trying to be gentle, he rattled bruises and scrapes. She gasped in pain.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," the young man said. The trek through the halls back to the queen's chambers was a haze of dull pains and she even thought she blacked out once.

NotAramis laid her down on her bed. The queen relished the plush comfort of the mattress.

NotAramis began shouting for maids and a physician.

She grabbed NotAramis' wrist like a vice. "My baby," she whispered desperately. "The physician has to check my baby."

"He will," the musketeer said. "I'm sure your baby is perfectly fine, your highness. We need to make sure you are alright as well."

"My baby is all that matters to me."

Queen Anne was consumed in dark and morbid thoughts, remembering her first child she lost. She didn't notice the physician had arrived until she felt him pushing on her stomach. He pressed on several spots as the queen watched intensely.

The bearded physician stopped and looked at the queen. "I'm sorry your majesty, but I really can't know if-"

The queen gasped.

"Your highness? My queen, what is it?"

A large radiant smile split the queen's face. "My baby. I felt him kick."

The room filled with cheers. Anne smiled, rubbing her belly lightly. Most was right again. If only she had Aramis.

* * *

**D'Artagnan is up next. It may take a few days, because I'm planning on making it long and intense. For you Debbie. ;)**


	11. D'Artagnan: Torture, Part 1

**Hello! Did you forget about me? Well I certainly didn't forget about this. (Even though the terrible wait might've suggested otherwise.) This is a long one, and I decided to split it into two parts since it'd been so long and I was desperate to get something up for you. This is by far the longest chapter so far. Peace offering?**

**Debbie! It took waaay too long, but here is your (or half of it) request for a tortured D'Artagnan.**

**No spoilers for season two, I'll warn you if I do that. (Even though season three will be along soon.) Okay. This is set sometime before A Rebellious Woman.**

* * *

"Go on and ride ahead, D'Artagnan," said Athos. "See how far from Paris we are yet."

D'Artagnan did as he was told silently because frankly it was almost dusk and they'd been riding since dawn; he was tired. As much as he enjoyed the company of his brothers riding through the forest ambience and chatting with him, some quiet while he daydreamed about sleep sounded incredible.

D'Artagnan reached the top of the hill and stopped his horse. The trees cleared and Paris spread out before him no less than a half day's ride away. Alas, they'd have to camp in the forest for the night, but they'd be back at the garrison by early afternoon which was good enough for D'Artagnan. The mission had been boring, uneventful, merely delivering letters, but it'd taken so long: a week to get there and a week to come back.

The youngest Musketeer turned his horse around to head back to the others. Pain erupted from his shoulder as something slammed into him. He fell from his horse and connected harshly with the ground. His breathe was knocked from his lungs so he could not cry out.

A large man was on him immediately. He wrapped his large hands around D'Artagnan's neck. Even if the young man could have remembered how to breathe he would've been unable.

His vision blurred, twisted. Blood heat flared in his cheeks; his ears rang, his eyes felt about to burst. Gradually, guickly his vision and mind were wholly claimed by the numbing darkness.

* * *

"I didn't tell D'Artagnan to ride ahead to Paris without us," grumbled Athos who was not at all concerned about D'Artagnan. Nope. He was not worried, not one bit. D'Artagnan was fine and probably just resting in the shade waiting for them to catch up.

"Bet he's hiding in the trees waitin' to scare us," said a grinning Porthos, who truely was not worried.

"Bet he is," said Athos. And if he sounded like he was trying to convince himself well it really wasn't anyone's business was it? He could ignore the fear and concern pooling in his stomach with the best of them.

"Should we pretend to be scared or act like we expected it?" asked Aramis pensively.

"I suppose that depends on how good he does at scaring us, doesn't it?" replied Porthos.

Shortly after this they arrived at the top of the hill, Aramis was ready to jump and look frightened while Porthos was ready to hurl his hat at D'Artagnan. But there was no sign of the youngest Musketeer.

"Oh he's good," whispered Aramis. "He's luring us into a false sense of security." He held his finger to his lips. _Shhhhh_.

Athos' stomach pulsed with dread. He sensed it in the air. Something was off, something bad had happened.

"D'Artagnan!" yelled Porthos. "Get out here whelp! We don't have the time for this!"

"Porthos," said Athos surveying the trees, "something's wrong."

Aramis hopped down from his horse and knelt to examine the path in front of them. He looked up at his friends. "I believe Athos is right. Definite signs of a struggle. And," he took a shuttering breath. His hand trembled as he lifted it to show the fresh dark blood on the tips of his fingers.

Athos hopped down from his horse. He ran his hand through his already disarrayed hair as he paced a circle. He froze when his foot crunched on something. He stooped to retrieve the crumpled paper from under his boot. He read.

He shouted.

"D'ARTAGNAN!"

* * *

_D'ARTAGNAN_

He thought he heard his name, faint, as if from the top of a high mountain. He couldn't be sure from the pounding in his head. He felt rough wood grain beneath his hands and face. His shoulder burned. The wobbling grating motion allowed him to assume he was in a cart of some kind. He didn't care though. He was too tired and his throat was too dry.

Sleep? Had he considered sleep? That might make him feel better.

* * *

He did not feel better. Head pounding, feet tingling; he felt his blood flushing through his arms. His shoulders ached, the pain in his left was nearly unbearable, but he recognized now the feeling of a gunshot wound. That was how they'd taken him. Without opening his eyes he assessed his position. His arms were tied and wrenched behind his back, he was on his knees, neck burning from limply hanging forward in unconsciousness. D'Artagnan's hands were pressed against the slick rock wall he was tied to. He felt cold shackles on his bare ankles. Someone had removed his boots.

He would've struggled, really, he would've, if he could move. He was positioned in such a way, and been held there so long, any movement was agony. Just the arching his back made to breathe cut his breaths short.

He could already feel the ghost bruises forming from the hands of his strangler earlier.

The dark was complete, not even a reflection of light anywhere. He could be blind for all he knew. He would've thought he was deaf if his own harsh breaths weren't scratching his eardrums.

He wondered how big an area he occupied in the impenetrable dark.

Were the others okay? They were out of sight when he was attacked, perhaps he was the only one taken. Surely they'd now know he was missing and something was wrong, right? They'd be looking for him by now.

There was a gritty grinding and a thick stone door opposite D'Artagnan about ten paces away swung inwards.

A man entered, flanked by two large men carrying torches. He wondered which one had strangled him. The man in the middle was slightly shorter than D'Artagnan and thinner, though with D'Artagnan being scrunched over like he was the stranger was over two feet taller, with dark red hair, highlighted blood red in the torchlight. His face was backlit, eye sockets thrown into shadow. A smile cut his cheeks.

"This is going to be so much fun!"

* * *

"Athos, we don't want to stop looking either," said Aramis in a forced reasonable tone, "but it's too dark. We can't see the tracks. We'll likely take ourselves farther away or alert whoever took D'Artagnan." Inside he was already imagining the epic fight they'd throw down when they found the men who took their brother. But he forced himself calm, for Athos.

They were painted orange by the flames. Athos paced, glare burning brighter than their small fire. The paper was clutched tightly in his palm, wrinkled beyond repair. But he didn't need to be able to read it. He knew what it said and what it meant.

"I know who took D'Artagnan."

"Seriously?" said Porthos. "Care to share?"

Athos turned to face them, but his lack of eye contact showed them plenty. He was somewhere else, reliving dark and bloody memories. "It's my dead wife's brother."

"Your wife had a brother?" asked Aramis, shocked.

Athos nodded. "I only met him once. After I had her hanged. He promised some vague, soul crushing retribution. It was hard to tell what he was saying. He was... He was crying too hard."

"He must have understood your wife's death was hard on you too," Aramis tried to reason. "She was a murderess. You did what you had to do, Athos. It was justice."

"None of that matters when you lose a sibling," said Athos, "I know."

"Do you have any idea where we can find them?" Porthos pleaded for his attention.

Athos nodded. "But we'll need the daylight to find it. I hope D'Artagnan makes it that long."

"We'll find D'Artagnan," said Porthos.

But Athos was lost to them again. He mumbled so low only he himself heard, "My wife took my brother from me, now he's come to take my son."

* * *

Without further preamble, he punched D'Artagnan in the cheek, jaw, temple, collar, chest, everywhere he could reach. D'Artagnan grunted, unsuccessfully trying to choke out words in between blows.

The man stopped to shake out his hand, making a face of discomfort. _Poor you_, thought D'Artagnan. "Who are you? What did I ever do to you?" His words were slurred slightly by his rapidly swelling lip. He spit out a bit of blood-tinted pink saliva.

"I'm so sorry, of course you don't know. I'm Andre." He turned to stage whisper to one of the torch holders, "I'm not much for this hands-on stuff. Could you please get me a club, a whip, a dagger-"

"What kind of whip, sir?"

He smirked. "Dealer's choice."

The torch holder left, leaving the tension in the cold stone room higher and the light lower.

"You know Athos, right boy? What is your opinion of him?"

D'Artagnan was shaking from the strained position of his body. "He is one of the most honorable men and loyal musketeers I know."

Andre clicked his tongue and leaned in close. D'Artagnan glared into his black tar pit eyes.

"Does an honorable man kill women? I don't think so. Athos had my sister killed. I've been watching you, D'Artagnan. Athos cares deeply for you. He sealed your fate with it." He pulled a small knife out of a sheath strapped to his leg. "Now, I'm going to cut your shirt off and gag you with it. That doesn't mean I don't want you to scream, I really hope you will, but I don't want conversation interrupting my torture."

He slashed through D'Artagnan's sleeves, sawed the front open, making sure to 'accidentally' give the young musketeer plenty of cuts and gouges. He ripped one of the sleeves off and stuffed it in D'Artagnan's mouth.

D'Artagnan bit down hard on his fingers.

Andre reared back yelling and clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. D'Artagnan managed a smile, teeth glistening red.

His captor backhanded him across the face, kicked him in the stomach once, twice. While D'Artagnan struggled for breath he shoved the gag back in his mouth and tied the ends behind his head.

"If you want to make this personal, boy, I have no problem with that."

Then he had a whip in his hand. D'Artagnan groaned pitifully. He hadn't noticed the other torch holder return.

"This whip is every interrogator's dream. Seven braided leather cords with shards of metal woven through. If you survive having one used on you infection is almost a guarantee. But," Andre shrugged, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that part."

Andre hauled his arm back then swung forward, letting the whip cords crash over D'Artagnan's back. He hissed in agony, groaned deeply, bit his tongue until he tasted blood, but he didn't scream. Not if he could help it.

Again and again the thick cords beat him as the razor sharp bits of metal shredded his skin.

Despite the dark frigid air D'Artagnan was sweating. His hair was plastered slick to his neck. It dripped into his eyes and off his chin, stung the wounds on his back, sides, even stomach where the whip cords wrapped around him. The strain in his vocal cords broke and screamed the pain out.

His breath was quick and shallow. The oxygen wasn't making it to his brain. This time when the numbing black came to claim him he welcomed it, fell into its embrace.

* * *

They rode the horses hard and by midmorning Athos, Porthos, and Aramis arrived at the house of Athos' once brother-in-law.

It was a large, old manor with dirty windows and a garden overrun by brown weeds. There wasn't a hint of the legion of servants a house that size must require. Milady must've had that effect on men when she died. Athos had let his house go too.

_We're coming, D'Art._

* * *

**I think what took me so long was that this chapter really intimidated me. I didn't know if I could write torture convincingly, keep the characters in character. This whole chapter was pain and I suffered with D'Artagnan. But I conquered my fear and (I hope) will be a better writer for it!**

**The next chapter will be the confrontation and all the fluff and comfort for this one.**

**Any requests? Please, please, please drop a review if you like!**


	12. D'Artagnan: Torture, Part 2

**And here's the second part! *Bows* Andre becomes a bit more of a sadist in this chapter, I think (Really reminding me of Mason Verger). **

**Let me know what you think after you read it! Please?**

* * *

The musketeers frantically searched the entire manor house for their lost brother in arms, but there was nothing. Not a sign of D'Artagnan or anyone else, just empty rooms of peeling paisley wallpaper.

Their only hope of where he could be was abandoned.

* * *

A hand slapped D'Artagnan awake.

"Wake up! _Wake up!_ You're having a bad dream!"

D'Artagnan peeled his eyes open. There was Andre smiling cruelly, eyes lit up in a kind of sadistic giddiness.

"Now it's a nightmare. I want you to feel every bit of this." A wooden bat was waved before D'Artagnan's swollen black eyes. Small metal studs were fastened to the sides.

D'Artagnan groaned; he licked his lips, his gag was gone. "Could you please blindfold me?"

Andre's eyebrows scrunched down in confusion. "Why would you want to be blindfolded? I thought musketeers were supposed to be noble and brave while facing their inevitable death," he antagonized.

D'Artagnan coughed weekly, He could feel the damp cold from this stone room settling in his lungs. He knew if he wasn't treated soon, even without the upcoming beating, he wouldn't last long. "It's not death that bothers me," he locked eyes with Andre, "I'm just sick of looking at your stupid face."

Andre laughed loud and fake. He leaned in close to spit on the youngest musketeer. "_My stupid face will be the last one you ever see_."

He swung the club into D'Artagnan's shoulder, thoroughly dislocating it. D'Artagnan screamed. The pain-filled sound echoed in the rock room.

The man laughed and shouted, "There's that music I love!" before knocking the poor boy's other shoulder out of its socket. "Louder, boy, louder! You think anyone besides us can hear you? Pathetic. Do you have any broken ribs yet?"

A few more crunching swings of the bat and D'Artagnan felt all his ribs were splintered inside him, piercing his heart, rattling inside his lungs.

D'Artagnan whimpered. Black spots were encroaching on his vision. He tried to fall into the darkness, let unconsciousness claim him, but even that comfort was denied to him now.

D'Artagnan didn't realize he was crying until Andre ran a thumb over his cheek, gathering a tear, and licked it.

"Hmm, tastes of salt and... The final realization that your musketeer friends won't make it here in time to save you. If they're even looking at all, who knows? They may even be happy to finally be rid of you. Athos does have a habit of getting the people around him killed." He leaned in close, closer, until his forehead pressed against D'Artagnan's. "I can't wait to see the breakdown he will have over your mangled corpse."

It couldn't be possible could it? That his friends weren't coming for him? He'd do anything for them, they had to know that. They were coming right?

They wouldn't just leave him to this horrible fate. _Right?_

D'Artagnan tried to spit, but his lips were too swollen and busted.

Andre chuckled. "If you beg me to, I might just kill you now and get it over with. Then I'll destroy your corpse beyond recognition. You wouldn't have to feel it though."

D'Artagnan said nothing.

"I think we should try the boiling water next! This plain club is getting boring isn't it?"

"You touch him again and I'll cut off your hands and feed them to you."

D'Artagnan let his head sag in relief. They came. They actually came for him. He _knew_ they would.

Andre turned around. Athos stood tall and fierce and _deadly_, radiating nonverbal threats. The other two musketeers hand taken out the torch holders silently, to not alert him.

"I might do that anyway," said Athos. His eyes were pits promising death, and not a pleasant one. "Aramis, Porthos, keep him here while I get D'Artagnan. Don't touch him. He's mine."

"Aye aye," said Porthos unable and unwilling to suppress his grin.

Athos was dying to kill him right then and there, but D'Artagnan needed him first. So he suspended his anger for the moment and knelt in front of D'Artagnan. The precious boy he considered a son was covered in blood and bruises. He was trembling, or shivering, Athos couldn't tell. "What did he do to you, my boy?" Both his shoulders were seriously dislocated, the left one had blood leaking a bullet wound. There wasn't an exit wound; the musket ball was still inside him. The skin of his back was torn and shredded. Athos growled as his eyes traced the patterns the whip had made across the boy's back and sides. His chest was one huge violet discoloration.

Athos got out his knife and carefully cut D'Artagnan's hands free. He whimpered as he helped him lower his arms. "Shhh, I know it hurts, it'll be okay," Aramis would have to pop the shoulders back in. "I've got you. You're safe now. Aramis will get you patched up in no time." He couldn't lay D'Artagnan down, not with broken ribs and a back like that. He settled D'Artagnan to rest against his chest.

Athos checked behind him. Aramis had Andre pressed to the wall with his sword to his neck; he was just keeping there. "Porthos, I need you."

Porthos was over there before Athos blinked.

"Can you take the shackles off his ankles?"

Porthos shook his head. "Not quickly, without hurtin him. We need to get out of here quick as we can. I can break the chains and worry about taking the cuffs off later."

"Do it." Athos ran his fingers through D'Artagnan's hair and whispered soothing nonsense while Porthos worked the chains with his dagger. D'Artagnan mumbled back, but it was nothing Athos could make out. He placed a hand on his surrogate son's forehead. "Aramis, I think he's getting a fever."

"I don't doubt he has an infection, with these terrible conditions," said Aramis.

"Got em," said Porthos.

As much as Athos hated to let D'Artagnan go, he had to take care of Andre.

He was just about to hand D'Artagnan to Porthos when the large musketeer said, "I know you want to be the one to do him in, and I understand perfectly, but, can I have one punch? Please? For D'Artagnan?"

Athos actually smiled. "Go ahead."

Porthos went and squared his shoulders. He took his time in pulling his fist back and throwing it into Andre's jaw. There was a crack and a yell. His hand flew up to his broken jaw; doing so he accidentally cut himself on Aramis' sword.

"Can I have a go too, Athos?" asked Aramis reminding Athos of an excited child.

Athos' breath hitched in a way that wasn't quite a laugh as D'Artagnan shifted his undoubtedly sore neck to watch. Athos released another protective growl upon noticing the hand shaped bruises coloring D'Art's throat. "Sure, make it a good one."

Aramis sheathed his sword and examined Andre, who was too frightened to move. "I know!" he shouted and brought up his knee and smashed it into Andre's stomach. He doubled over and fell to the floor, trying to breathe. They left him there, gagging.

"Porthos," called Athos. He transferred D'Artagnan as gently as he could into Porthos' arms. He didn't know how the boy managed to pull his heartstrings so, but with every painful whimper Athos wanted less to let him go.

But he couldn't heal him like Aramis could; and Andre needed to be dealt with.

He let his anger kindle and boil as he watched Porthos, D'Artagnan, and Aramis leave.

"Aramis?"

Aramis turned back.

"Shut the door," Athos commanded.

As the door was shut Andre realized how finished he was. How stupid he had been to have put himself here.

"How did you find us?" he attempted to stall. His jaw ached and his words were poorly formed and painful.

Athos stalked slowly towards him, backing him into a corner. "This room isn't as soundproof as you think. We searched the entire upstairs of the house, thought it was abandoned. We were just getting ready to leave when the screaming started."

Andre looked at his two accomplices. Their torches were still aflame on the ground, providing light. Their bodies were still laying on the floor in puddles of blood where the musketeers had left them. They had been the only two servants he'd kept. They'd been stabbed in the neck. Quick and efficient.

Athos had no intention of being quick and efficient. Andre saw his death in those dark eyes.

Andre's breath quickened, "You deserve all the pain-"

Athos cut him off by punching him in the mouth. "You really shouldn't talk with a broken jaw." He punched him again in the head. He grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, lifted him up, and slammed him down on the rough stone floor. Andre gasped, back arching. He shivered at the feel of the dead men's blood soaking through his shirt.

"Did you think you could just torture my son and I wouldn't retaliate?" Athos shouted. He lifted him by the collar and punched him back down. "Did you think you didn't have this coming?"

"I know, I do, I'm sorry," pleaded Andre, "I should never have taken my anger at you out on the boy. It was a mistake. I'm so sorry. Please don't kill me."

"What are you doing? Are you seriously begging _me_ to spare your life? Have you already forgotten what you've _done_?" yelled Athos. His shouting echoed in the room.

"Haven't you ever made a mistake in righteous anger? I am appealing to your better nature. I deserve punishment for what I've done. Take me back to Paris, imprison me, let a trial and judge decide my fate, but please don't kill me here."

Athos stilled his fist, mere inches from Andre's nose. "Appealing to my better nature?" He lifted Andre up by the shirt and slammed him into the wall and wrapped his hands around his neck before shouting, "When someone I love is hurt, _I have no better nature_!"

Andre's teeth were slick with blood. "Can you in good conscience kill me?"

Athos looked him in the eye, searching for any sign of true remorse. There was none. "Yes. This is justice."

He wasn't keeping track of Andre's hands. He almost didn't see the glint of the small knife.

Almost.

Athos spun out of the way as Andre lashed out, off balance. Athos grabbed one of the torches and struck Andre in the head with it. He screamed at the burn and fell, dropping the knife.

Athos grabbed the knife and plunged it into Andre's heart.

Athos stood and shook drops of blood off his fingers. He pulled the crumpled note out of his pocket and dropped it next to Andre's corpse.

It had read simply: _For my sister_.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos were using an old bedroom in the manor house to treat D'Artagnan. They'd rested the poor musketeer on the creaky old mattress. He whimpered in half-consciousness at every jostled pain, but it was better than the floor.

"I have to pop his shoulders back in the sockets, remove the musket ball from the left, and set his ribs. He may have other broken bones; I'll have to check him over," said Aramis. He was in full physician mode pretending this broken and bruised musketeer wasn't the boy he considered a little brother.

"That all sounds painful," said Porthos shaking out an old folded blanket for D'Artagnan. "Do you want me to knock him out?"

"No," said Aramis, "he may have a concussion, I don't know. If we knock him out he might not wake up. But please hold him down."

D'Artagnan, still only half-conscious, bucked and writhed when the medic set his shoulders. He was more subdued with the ribs but he still fought. Thankfully none of his ribs had serious breaks. He was still and whimpering when Aramis removed the bullet.

It broke his friends' hearts when he mumbled and begged for them to stop.

Porthos arranged the blanket into a cushioning shape and gently, _gently_ rolled D'Artagnan over onto his stomach so Aramis could clean his back. Porthos ran outside to the well to fetch water while Aramis ripped up a clean sheet found in a closet to make bandages.

While they cleaned D'Artagnan lost consciousness on his own. They knew it was dangerous, but they couldn't help feeling relieved that he wasn't feeling this anymore. They finished the bandaging and rolled him onto his back. There was no comfortable way to position him, but it would've been worse to lay on those cracked ribs.

The cuffs were still on his ankles, but they cleaned the area and bandaged where they'd cut him. As Porthos was covering him with the blanket Athos walked in.

Despite the dark blood coating his hands Athos was the calmest they'd seen him since D'Artagnan was taken.

"How is D'Artagnan?"

"I believe he will live."

"Recover completely?"

"Should."

"Shooting practice in a week?"

"Give him two. Andre?"

"Dead."

"I thought you were gonna take longer," said Porthos.

"He came at me with a knife. I was merciful."

"You were," said Aramis, "D'Artagnan's injuries were bad in the dark, but in the daylight... I could've strangled him with my bare hands without blinking."

"I would've hung him," said Porthos.

"I need to get cleaned up," said Athos. "How long are we staying Aramis?"

"Probably just tonight, he needs medicine I don't have, but he needs to rest now. There's a cart out front. We can pad it with blankets and pillows tomorrow morning and be on our way back to Paris." Aramis brought over a bucket of water and a rag to Athos. After washing his face and Andre's blood off his hands he took off his layers of leather and boots. He settled himself, gently so as not to disturb the now sleeping boy, onto the bed next to D'Artagnan. His eyes were drawn to the stark bruises marring his throat.

He brushed his surrogate son's bangs out of his eyes and adjusted the blanket. Porthos and Aramis chatted quietly, pretending not to notice Athos' uncharacteristic display of open affection.

"We'll be home soon, D'Artagnan." D'Artagnan sighed in sleep and turned his face to Athos' touch. "You're safe now." He rested his hand on the boy's forearm, one of the only places that wouldn't cause him pain.

"Ath's?" D'Artagnan mumbled sleepily.

"I'm here. I'm right here." He wasn't letting this boy out of his sight until he was one hundred percent healed.

D'Artagnan smiled faintly. "He said you wouldn't come. I knew you would." His words were slurred with sleep.

"Of course I came. We all came for you. He can't hurt you anymore. Go to sleep now D'Art. I'll be right here when you wake up."

* * *

**I just love Athos so much. I was even a little scared of him when he was beating the crap out of Andre. Lol **

**The confrontation was longer than I intended it to be, but it was **_**very**_** satisfying. I won't be able to work on an update (for any of my fics) for a few days at least. I have a short story I need to write for school and I can't work on anything else until I finish it. BTW I have no idea if Milady had a brother in canon and I don't feel like looking it up now.**

**So who would read a crack fic about our musketeers playing basketball? I'm gonna write it either way when I get a chance but I'm curious who would read it?**

**Please drop me a review if you liked the chapter! Porthos is up next whenever, hopefully with something relatively lighthearted after this.**


	13. Porthos: Rain

**Hello Dr. Lecter. Lol jk I just felt the intense urge to write that. I'm back with a prompt fill for romirola! I hope you likey. ;)**

* * *

Porthos ran hunched over awkwardly in an attempt to remain as dry as possible in the freezing downpour. Water droplets rolled off his leather jacket, his pants were soaked from sloshing through puddles of mud and soggy straw. The rain dripping off the brim of his hat obscured his vision and nearly made him trip.

He ducked into a narrow covered alley, which was essentially nothing more than a hole in the wall about five feet deep piled with a few cracked boxes, to catch his breath and shake the water off his hat. It had been raining for about two weeks solid and the clouds were looking no lighter, in color or weight. The musketeers had put off training after the ground became too slick and almost everyone had some bruise or minor injury from falling while simply walking around the compound.

Porthos would've gladly stayed back at the garrison with Aramis, Athos, and D'Artagnan, but he'd had to get out to retrieve his newly repaired sword from the smithy. The guy had sent a messenger to tell Porthos he'd sell it to the next customer if he didn't come get it today. So Porthos grudgingly abandoned his toasty fire to shiver in the autumn rain.

"Aw man," he mumbled to himself, "it'll take days for this to dry out."

He was still being splattered. As he shuffled as far back as he could he accidentally kicked some of the boxes over. A startled mewing and a small grey cat tumbled out into a puddle.

"Sorry little guy," said Porthos as he picked up the soaked cat. It's fur was tangled and was the color of the clouds currently plaguing Paris. The cat wriggled around in Porthos' arms.

"You don't like this rain either, do ya?" The cat mewed so Porthos continued the conversation. "You should really be taking shelter somewhere a little drier."

The poor cat was small, still a kitten practically. It shivered in violent quakes against Porthos.

He glanced out the alley. The downpour wasn't letting up and night was falling quicker than usual. So, without really thinking about what he was doing, he replaced his hat, stuffed the small, shivering cat into his jacket against his side and darted back out in the rain for the garrison.

* * *

He kicked off his soaked boots as soon as he entered his room. The cat had stopped shivering and was purring contentedly against his side. He hung his hat on a wall hook. He jumped when he saw the room was crowded with his three friends.

"Don't you all have your own rooms?" he said.

"We do," said Aramis, "but our rooms don't have your new sword in them! We want to see it."

"Uh, alright." He unbuckled the sword from his belt and passed it to Aramis who slid it out of it's protective sheath. He turned his side so his friends wouldn't see the kitten stretching inside his coat like some odd new growth.

"This is fine craftsmanship," said Athos, examining the blade as he held it to catch the light from the fireplace.

"The handle's a bit plain though," said Aramis. "I thought you'd have him, I don't know, jazz it up or something."

"Well you know Aramis I'm not quite- Ah!" Porthos exclaimed as the kitten flexed his claws, poking him through his thin shirt.

"What's wrong?" asked D'Artagnan with his dark, concerned puppy eyes.

"Nothin, nothin." Porthos tried to pass it off as a groan from stretching his arms up and over his head. He reflexively jerked to the side as the cat did it again.

Athos' eyes narrowed, brows lowered in suspicion. "Are you sure you're alright, Porthos?"

"I promise, I'm fi-INE!" Porthos spun around, desperate, fighting the desire to rip his jacket off with the cat sharpening his claws on him. His three friends stood wide-eyed and frozen at his odd dance. They said nothing. "Actually guys," Porthos said panting, "I'm really tired. I'd like to rest if you don't mind."

"I think you need it," said D'Artagnan. He stared at Porthos as he walked past him to the door, afraid he might spazz out again. Athos left the sword on Porthos' bed.

His friends looked disappointed to be tossed out into the rain again so soon, even if just for the short run to their own rooms, but Porthos didn't feel too bad about it when he couldn't even stand still because his skin was being ripped to shreds by a small, furry _demon_.

He shut the door behind his friends and ripped his coat off faster than he'd ever done anything. He pried the cat's claws free from his shirt and set it on the floor. His shirt had a couple tiny rips and a few spots of blood on it so he took it off too.

The cat sniffed around the room for a bit before hopping onto the bed.

"Oh no you don't," said Porthos. He picked the kitten up and sat him back on the floor. He mewed indignantly before jumping onto the bed again.

"I'm not arguing with you about this." He placed the cat on the ground a second time. The cat ran under the bed and jumped up on the opposite side. He paced in a lazy circle before curling up on the blankets.

"This isn't over," Porthos growled as he picked out a clean shirt.

He wasn't sure why he'd tried so hard to keep it from his friends. It wasn't like it was something bad or needed to be hidden. Maybe it was because in his life, ever since he was a small child, there had been so few things that he could call _his_. But, childish and immature as it may seem, he'd found this cat all by himself and he wanted to take care of it all by himself.

He knelt by the bed in his clean, dry shirt and scratched the cat behind his ears. He seemed to like it. His thick fur was still just really damp. The roaring fireplace should take care of that soon enough.

"What should I call you, eh? What's a good cat name?"

He paced around his room while he thought. Fluffy? Horace?

Porthos went to pet the cat again, this time he was surprised when he was threatened with a hiss and raised claws. Porthos backed away with his hands in the air. "Grouchy little fella." The cat stood and shook himself before turning where his back was to Porthos and collapsing again. The big musketeer looked at the tiny raindrops still glistening on his silver grey fur, and it was obvious. It was perfect.

"I think I'll call you Rain."

* * *

**Tada! So this is what it's like to write lighthearted? I haven't done it in so long. Lol. I still take requests. It may take me forever to get it done, but I get it done.**


	14. Athos: Fall

**Just in case you guys are curious, D'Artagnan is the musketeer I get asked to whump the most and Athos is the least. Take that as you will.**

* * *

Athos laid on the bench lazily, enjoying the warm sun raining down on him. He was off to the side of the training area in the front of the garrison. The sky was a gorgeous blue with a nice layer of clouds covering it like gauze, not that Athos could see it with his hat positioned low over his eyes. It was breezy, but it was nice. Kept it from being too hot out.

The rhythmic sounds of training near him were mollifying. Mixed with the relaxed exhaustion of his already worked muscles, it could almost put him to sleep. He enjoyed being left alone when the sun and sounds were soothing like this.

Until a hand shook his shoulder.

Athos pushed his hat back to see a scraggly, scrawny man in a frayed and patched shirt with torn sleeves.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, sir," he stammered, his thin, unshaven face looked terrified that he would be reproached for this, "but I need help and everyone else seems busy." He was older and obviously poor, but his eyes were filled with a kindness and hope almost solely found in children.

As Athos stood up he tried to sort-of smile to put the man at ease. It was a musketeer's job to help.

"I'm Athos. If I can help you, I will."

"Thank you, sir. I'm Pascal. It's not really an emergency, or anything, but it would really mean a lot to me if you could get him."

"Get who?" asked Athos.

"My cat. He went and got himself stuck on your roof."

Athos looked up and, sure enough, a fluffy orange cat sat lazily flicking it's tail on the roof of the building Treville kept his office in.

"I can't climb up myself and get him and I was hoping-"

Athos sighed, removed his hat, and raised a hand to stop him talking. "I'll get him for you."

As Athos climbed the stairs he couldn't help mentally complaining about having to save a _cat_. Even the red guards could handle that. Rescuing people, sleeping, and self-loathing destructive habits. Those were his talents and cats weren't anywhere on the list.

He reached the top landing. He still had a seven foot climb to the roof. He balanced on the railing connected with the wall, gripped the edge of the shingled roof and hauled himself up. The shingles bit through his pants and scratched grooves in his gloves. He mumbled angrily about this.

There the cat was. Just sitting about three feet away and staring at Athos with lidded eyes and flicking tail.

"Alright cat," said Athos, "you're coming with me."

He bent over to pick the cat up, slightly off balance from the angled roof and thick wind that pushed against him and tugged at his hair. As soon as he lifted it, it turned into a fluffy whirlwind of claws and hissing. Athos held it out as far from him as possible, gripping tightly as it tried to escape his grasp and rip his face. With the wind and the crazy cat and the sloped roof, it was inevitable.

He accidentally stepped backwards off the roof.

There was a weightless second of empty air before he crashed through the landing. Pain erupted throughout his back and bones.

Athos was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

He awoke slowly, as if ascending one level to consciousness at a time. He was aware of lying in a bed. Then that he was lying on his stomach. Next the pain. A dull ache at first, but as he awoke it deepened, sharpening at spots. As far as he could tell his injuries were mainly located from his shoulders to his lower back.

"Do you have any idea how many splinters we pulled out of you?"

Athos opened his eyes and shifted his slightly sore neck until he could see Aramis slumped tiredly in a chair by his bed. They were in his room. Porthos sat in his own chair behind Aramis, head bobbing as if he were desperately fighting to stay awake. It was a losing battle. D'Artagnan had given up and sitting in the floor, propped up by the wall, snoring quietly.

"What?" asked Athos, voice dry and cracked.

"No, seriously, we lost count around 112."

Athos licked his dry lips. He was trying to figure out how to tell him this had happened because of a stupid, fleabag cat. He should have left it up there. He should've told the man that since his cat got himself up there, he could get himself down.

"If it makes you feel better," said Aramis, "the cat is perfectly fine. Pascal just left. He said he owes you."

_Darn right he does_, thought Athos.

"If you ever need anything just let him know, he said."

Athos would remember that.

Aramis began chuckling quietly to himself. Athos' voice wouldn't cooperate so he growled to make him stop.

"I'm sorry," said Aramis, "I just can't picture you being the cat rescuing type. You try so hard to hide it but you're a softie."

Athos let his face speak for him, knowing Aramis knew him well enough to read it. _I am no longer the cat rescuing type. _

"But don't you feel good about it?"

_I feel terrible._

"Isn't saving some poor, defenseless creature worth a few splinters?"

_That thing wasn't defenseless._

Aramis chuckled. He patted Athos' thigh before standing. "I'll let you rest. Perhaps tomorrow we can discuss the practicality of implementing cat fighting techniques into our training."

_I'm going to kill you._

"Goodnight to you too."

* * *

**So yeah, it's not a theme or anything. Two cat stories in a row just kinda happened. I hope you enjoyed them both!**


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